


Life and Times

by rusting_roses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusting_roses/pseuds/rusting_roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ten ficlets of less than 500 words on the life and times of Sherlock, John and Lestrade based on various prompts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life and Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [times_whisper](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=times_whisper).



> Many, many happy returns on this, your birthday, [](http://times-whisper.livejournal.com/profile)[**times_whisper**](http://times-whisper.livejournal.com/)! You are phenomenal and adorable, and I really, really can't believe we've known each other for more than a decade—but I'd have it no different ♥

1\. Tea

John knows that Sherlock, at least, has been awake for at least forty-eight hours. Lestrade had claimed that he'd slept the previous night, but the bags under his eyes suggest otherwise. The corners of John's mouth are pulled down with an almost physical weight as he tries to figure out what he can do to aid the pair of them as they look at the case file again and again and grow increasingly frustrated.

John can't see anything in the pictures, however, can't glean any knowledge that might give them the vital clue. He can't even read the notes in the file anymore, as the letters themselves are swimming before his eyes. So he rubs at his face as he takes a break to make tea, bringing his friends each a large, steaming mug and placing it within easy reach. He's careful to put the blue one near Lestrade, since he's reasonably sure there haven't been any chemicals in it recently; as for the other, well, if Sherlock intends to use their mugs for dubious purposes, he can live with the consequences.

Both of them reach out and take large gulps almost before John lets go of the handles; Lestrade, at least, smiles at him, but Sherlock just makes a sound of victory, nearly overturning the table in his haste to get to his jacket, sending files spinning to the floor. "Hurry!" he shouts, "I've got it!"

~*~

2\. Sherlock + crime scene = tired and irritated John and Lestrade

There is only one person who is insane enough to be unwilling to get out of a sleeting rain and leave a crime scene.

That person is Sherlock.

John and Lestrade huddle under an umbrella, breath coming in little huffs that fill the air before them as they attempt to stay out of the weather. The blue skies of earlier in the day are long gone, and the umbrella hasn't exactly stopped the pair of them from getting soaked to the bone. After all, there's only so much that can be done when the rain is basically coming down sideways. John doesn't even have the ability to pretend he's not all but attempting to climb into Lestrade's jacket anymore—he's that cold.

God, he wants a hot shower.

John shivers again, the cold of it soaking into his bones, his temper stretched to it limits.

"Come off it, Sherlock!" Lestrade says from beside him. He sounds rather desperate. "Aren't you done yet? It's frigid out here!"

"What are you looking for?" John demands at almost the same time. "You're going to catch your death!"

Sherlock ignores them both, squinting up at the sky, the rivulets pouring down his face. His mouth opens, tongue darting out to taste the water. Then he drops again, inspecting the dead man's clothing—for what, John has no idea. He doesn't even appear to have heard their complaints. Or perhaps he's just ignoring them. It's entirely possible, and it wouldn't even be the first time that he's ignored them as being beneath his notice.

Lestrade sighs and it's a gusty sound. He and John huddle closer together, irritation a constant simmer under the surface, rubbing them raw. Sherlock could regularly try the patience of a saint. There's nothing for it, however, except for John to mutter under his breath, "Next time, I'll bring us coffee."

Lestrade's anger doesn't melt or fade away. "Or I could kill Sherlock and hide the body, and I'll never have to go through this ever again," he mutters under his breath.

"If only," John murmurs back.

They both sigh when a gust of wind turns their umbrella inside-out.

~*~

3\. Lestrade stalks Sherlock

Lestrade doesn't approach Sherlock as he follows the man through the city to Hyde Park, though he desperately wants to. Sherlock's been wandering around the city for hours now, and if Lestrade is cold, bundled up with a heavy jacket, gloves and a scarf, then Sherlock must be beyond freezing, as he's wearing his jacket open and isn't armed with any other protection.

When Sherlock finally collapses into a park bench, however, Lestrade thinks that it's finally safe, and he comes to sit next to Sherlock. Sherlock's scowl is a frightening thing to behold when he turns it on Lestrade—or at least, it would have been frightening if Sherlock hadn't shot him that look a thousand times before.

"Stalking is illegal," Sherlock hisses and the words are dark and dangerous in a way Lestrade hasn't heard since the early days. The Before John days.

"It's not stalking," Lestrade says genially. When Sherlock doesn't respond, to even contest Lestrade's rebuttal, he prompts, "Your fingers are going to turn blue and fall off if you stay out here much longer."

"That's not how frostbite works," Sherlock bites out bitterly. "And besides, I'm only to the second stage; my fingers have turned white and I've lost all feeling in them. I've got time yet."

"And you don't think that's a bad thing anyways?"

"Why are you even here?"

"John didn't think you'd take too kindly to him following you, so he figured that he'd ring someone who could stand your ire but was willing to follow you in the first place. You know, this isn't like you—you shouldn't be wasting your time out here in the cold. It's bad for brainwork." He turns the last phrase into a joke, or tries to, but it just dies silently between them.

Sherlock ignores him.

Lestrade sighs, and there's something like defeat curdling in his chest. He straightens his back, though, because if there's something being a DI has taught him, it's how to make it look like you know what you're doing even when you don't.

So he tells Sherlock, "Come on. I'll get you a cab," because there really isn't anything else for him to say.

He hopes he's doing the right thing.

~*~

4\. The Doctor/Doctor jokes

When John finally makes it to the crime scene, Sherlock barely glances at him, but Lestrade's eyebrows are fairly close to meeting his hairline when he finally glances over. He positively _chortles_ , drawing stares from Donovan and a few others that John doesn't know by name. "What?" John snaps, wondering what could be the cause of Lestrade's reaction. He glances at himself self-consciously, but doesn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"Doctor, where's your TARDIS?" Lestrade inquires, a smile spreading across his face. When John continues to look confused, Lestrade gestures at John's outfit. He's wearing a blue bow-tie and patterned shirt with dark slacks along with a tweed blazer that's complete with elbow patches. As comprehension strikes, John mock-glares at Lestrade.

"Oh, ha, ha," John retorts dryly. He knows his clothes are a little outdated, but they're good quality, so there was no point in buying more updated clothing that he could ill afford. Besides, they don't look _that_ old. Do they? "If only. Then I wouldn't have to put up with that tosser." He shrugs a little, hiding a fond smile even as he glances over to see whether Sherlock had been paying enough attention to hear him. "I could just skip over the boring bits."

"TARDIS?" Sherlock calls, but he doesn't sound like he actually cares, more like he's just humouring John.

"Time And Relative Dimensions In Space," John and Lestrade shout back together, look at each other, and break down into laughter.

Donovan snorts too, hiding a smile behind her hand. It's enough that John winks at her, however, fiddles with his bow-tie, and then says brightly, "It's bigger on the inside, you know."

"Time travel. Rote. Boring," Sherlock sing-songs without care. "Why would you travel in time and space when you can see something interesting right here?" He points at the dead body at his feet. "He was poisoned, you know. I don't know how you were blind enough not to see the mark under his fingernails; shoddy work, shoddy work!"

That catches Lestrade's attention, finally, and they return to business, listening to Sherlock's deductions with awe as usual. John thinks the matter is dropped, but apparently Sherlock hadn't gotten the memo, because it doesn't stop Sherlock from saying smugly, as they walk away from the crime scene, "And just think, John. I did it all without a sonic screwdriver."

~*~

5\. Lestrade on nicotine

Drugs busts have become a part of John's life that he could do without, but are sadly a hazard of living with one Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade's always very apologetic about it and the Yard is always careful with his belongings, but that doesn't stop them from inspecting every possible hiding place in his room as well as the rest of the flat. John understands it on a practical level; Sherlock is a difficult man to work with, and any cooperation between Sherlock and the Yard is usually due to a good bit of coaxing on the part of Lestrade, but sometimes Lestrade needs to stand his ground and threaten Sherlock to get the detective to say more than a handful of words to the man. So they toddle along in some sort of strange equilibrium where threats are currency; it works for them, and John's long since decided not to fight it.

That doesn't stop Sherlock from getting his revenge, of course. The pick-pocketing of the man's identification is only the beginning.

This particular drugs bust, John is tiredly watching Anderson comb through various pieces of chemical equipment. He's examining a blue box of pipette tips, ignoring, as everyone else is, the vicious accusations—or, rather, since this is Sherlock, the vicious facts—the man is spouting.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade bellows, interrupting the man even as he puts one hand to his head. "Either help us, or let us get on with our work. I don't have time for your insults. We're on a deadline." He looks faintly ill, and he keeps rubbing his arm like he's got an itch or something.

"Are you alright, Lestrade?" John asks, the doctor in him already eyeing the other man critically. His fingers are itching to go pull out his stethoscope and take the man's pulse. He comes over to the DI, who is rubbing at his temple now. "Can I get you anything? A cuppa?"

"The only thing I _need_ ," Lestrade snarls with rather more ire than usual, "is for Sherlock to pull his head out of his arse." John raises an eyebrow as Lestrade fiddles with his cuff for a moment before pulling his sleeve up, frowning at the nicotine patch on his arm. He flexes his hand. Suspicion begins to creep into the back of John's mind.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock looks interested, pulling out his phone and beginning making what looks like notes, if his constant observation of Lestrade's behaviour is anything to go by. Then Sherlock glances down at his own arm, which John knows perfectly well probably is covered in at least two at the moment, possibly more, and the detective looks very thoughtful indeed. The suspicion blossoms into full-grown knowledge.

"Sherlock," John questions tiredly, "What did you do to Lestrade's nicotine patches?"

~*~

6\. Three men walk into a bar...

"I don't see the point of this," Sherlock begins, deeply annoyed. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he's frowning prodigiously. He also looks like he's seconds away from simply stalking back to 221B. "Why can't we just do this at home?"

He's working himself up for a top-notch fit, so John cuts him off smoothly, saying, "You were the one that told us that you can do pub tricks with the bottles and then agreed to show us. Firstly, that necessitates a pub and secondly, it's your own damn fault for agreeing to show us. Just because Lestrade volunteered the one the local Yard goes to doesn't mean you get to throw a tantrum."

"To be fair, I mostly did it because people would think I was taking the piss if I go in Monday morning and claim that I saw the great Sherlock Holmes juggling bottles in a pub," Lestrade proclaims cheerfully, ignoring it when John gives him a look.

Sherlock is furious at being so well read by anyone, let alone the DI, but it's a little late to back out as both Lestrade and John push him into the pub. Donovan, Kuthrapali, Pond and Cooper are all there with drinks in front of them, along with some locals who are engrossed in the game playing onscreen. He and Lestrade all but frog-march the lanky detective to the bartender, who finishes the drink he's working on and slides it to Donovan, who in turn takes one glance at Sherlock and drains half the glass.

"A favor, Ted?" Lestrade asks. "Sherlock wants to prove a point." Ted doesn't say a word, but his bright smile is answer enough as he turns to lift the table. Sherlock passes through without comment.

"Well?" he snaps the minute he's behind the bar, "Someone give me a drink." When no answer is immediately forthcoming, Sherlock looks supremely irritated. "I suppose I must do _everything_."

He rummages around the bottles, pulling out two and what looks like cranberry juice. Lestrade looks more impressed than John, but then again, John has always preferred beer. Sherlock grabs a strainer off a shelf, flipping it expertly over his head and into his waiting hand before filling it halfway with ice. He rolls one of the bottles, which was made of blue glass, across the back of his hand before expertly pouring in a shot's worth of alcohol, grabs the second bottle and flips them both up in the air before pouring another half-shot of each alcohol and topping it with the juice. Sherlock sends the bottles in a series of expert spins, ignoring the way the entire pub has gone deadly silent before tossing the strainer high in the air, snatching a glass off the shelf, uncapping the strainer and pouring it into the glass without spilling more than a drop.

Sherlock tips an imaginary hat, and to the awed audience he drawls, "Come on then. Give me a challenge."

~*~

7\. Sherlock analyzing Lestrade and John

"Sorry I'm late," John pants as he comes jogging up to the cab that Sherlock and Lestrade are impatiently waiting in front of. "I was," he waves a hand, "involved in something."

"Masturbating, you mean," Sherlock corrects in a bored voice without looking up from his phone.

"Sherlock!" John cries, turning a beautiful shade of scarlet. There's outrage in his voice, and he looks like he'd happily beat Sherlock black and blue. "God, Sherlock, you can't just _say_ stuff like that! It's private!"

Sherlock pauses in his typing for just a minute, scowling. "Well, John, it's not like Lestrade didn't know. It's obvious. You told us you'd met us down here, without even a rote offer of tea, you're far more out of breath than a single flight of stairs would normally result in, and you haven't looked at me once since you came out. Those are only the most obvious signs, though. And I wouldn't have even needed that, since we don't normally have sex during cases, and I've noticed your increased arousal for the last two days. It was only a matter of time."

John and Lestrade are very careful to completely ignore each other's presence. Undeterred, Sherlock glances between the pair of them and sighs heavily, like he can't believe he's being put through this. "If it makes you feel any better," Sherlock announces dryly, without appearing to notice John and Lestrade's matching wide eyes, "Lestrade hasn't had sex in two and a half weeks, though he's masturbated once during that time."

Two horrified, disturbed, and utterly mortified voices shout, " _Sherlock_!" in unison.

~*~

8\. A quiet evening

John is in the process of cleaning up the dishes from dinner—he'd made some chicken piccata that even Sherlock had been coaxed into eating—and listening to the dim sound of Sherlock's rapid staccato typing and the sound of the telly. The light of the telly fills the room with an eerie blue glow that casts a strange light over Sherlock's features. John stacks the last dish on the drainer he'd bullied Sherlock into getting and takes a look at the experiments covering the table when, "Don't even think about it!" rings out in a low baritone from the other room.

"They've been sitting there for three weeks!" John protests, coming out into the main room and fisting his hands on his hips. "What on _Earth_ are you trying to discover?"

"It's a chemical analysis," Sherlock proclaims vaguely. He doesn't mention what chemicals are involved, or what he's testing for, and John closes his eyes, trying to determine whether he's up to having a knock-down, drag-out fight over the contents of the kitchen.

Again.

There's headache throbbing in his temples, and John just wants to make himself a cuppa and sit in front of the telly with it until he falls asleep in his chair and has to be gently shaken awake by Sherlock and coaxed to bed like a small child. If he argues with Sherlock, however, he won't get any of those things, because they'll bitch each other out until John wants to scream in frustration and storms upstairs and back to the rarely used room.

He'd just wanted a quiet evening.

Lestrade, of course, chooses that moment to come racing into the room, and John doesn't know whether he's flooded with a sort of belligerent irritation or heartfelt relief. Sherlock, however, knows exactly how he feels about Lestrade's impromptu entrance, and he leaps from the couch and darts over to Lestrade, already demanding the details and correcting three of Lestrade's assumptions before the man's taken three steps into the room.

John watches them go, and when he thinks, _A quiet evening indeed_ , he isn't sure whether he's mocking his mental image of Sherlock or not. He stands there, debating the merits of crawling under the covers anyways, when Sherlock sticks his head around the door, frowning. "Aren't you coming?" he demands heatedly, and then disappears again.

There's nothing for John to do but follow.

~*~

9\. Them at the Yard

"Get him _out_ ," Lestrade hisses. John hasn't even made it through the door before Lestrade grabs his arm and tows him aside. "At this point, I think Anderson and Donovan are plotting to poison him if they can, and I don't know if I'm willing to stop them."

John's mouth works for a moment. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask what Sherlock had said—or what Anderson and Donovan had done to fan the flames, because whoever started it, he knows that there's enough bad blood between the three of them that it didn't matter who said what first—and then he decided he was better off not knowing. John knows by now that none of them are blameless, and unravelling the hows and whys and wherefores would just give him a headache. "Uh, sure," he manages. "I—"

"John!" Sherlock bellows, sweeping past John and Lestrade and sparing them barely a glance. "Come on, now, we have to go to Bart's. I've got to have a word with Molly," he announces stiffly. He loops the deep blue scarf around his neck, movements all restrained frustration.

Lestrade's face is dark, but there's a strange mix sympathy and fury in his eyes as John gives him a brief nod and follows Sherlock out.

John doesn't pry, though. If Sherlock wants to share, he will.

~*~

10\. Shock blanket

"Oh, God," Lestrade moans pathetically. "My eyes, my poor eyes!" He buries his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. "Give me some bleach, I need to scour my mind!"

"This is your own damn fault," Sherlock snaps, pulling his blue silk robe tighter around himself. The harsh words are belied by the fact that Sherlock can't quite stop blushing, a red stain that crosses his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "If you'd texted me like normal, or bothered to wait more than three seconds—"

"Hush, Sherlock!" John commands, handing Lestrade a cuppa. He, strangely enough, seems to be less upset by recent events than Lestrade would have thought. He doesn't even seem apologetic—in fact, he seems more like he intends to go on as he always has, steady and calm.

Lestrade rather envies him for it.

"Don't mind him," John continues, and there—now there's a flush spreading over his entire face, going so far as to creep down his neck. Lestrade can't help but realize that he knows exactly how far down that colour will go under completely different circumstances. The sheer embarrassment that he now has that knowledge makes death seem like a blessed relief. "He's just...upset. You know." John looks away quickly.

Lestrade moans again. He knows why Sherlock is upset, and while the 'bloke' portion of Lestrade is sympathetic, the rest of him just wants to remove the images from his beleaguered brain. There are some things Lestrade neither needs nor wants to see, and this is most definitely one of them.

"I have every right to be upset!" Sherlock complains, and Lestrade is rather surprised that Sherlock hasn't stamped his foot yet. He's acted the part of the spoiled brat thus far, and Lestrade doubts that'll change any time soon. "Inspector, leave now." Sherlock's eyes narrow and his grin is positively dangerous. "Unless you desire to stick around and critique John's technique—" Sherlock nearly swallows his tongue at John's raised eyebrow.

"I think," John says frostily, as Sherlock hastens to backtrack, "that you should go into the other room." Sherlock tries to fight the order for a moment before he caves and skulks away. When he's gone, John turns to Lestrade one last time, apologetic. "I really am sorry about that—well, for him, at any rate," John says kindly.

"No, I shouldn't have just come in," Lestrade is quick to point out. "I'm sure—oi, what are you doing with that?" he inquires, frowning as Sherlock comes gliding back out of his room.

"This is for you," Sherlock retorts, expression haughty.

Lestrade tilts his head in confusion.

Sherlock huffs a breath as though Lestrade has mortally offended him, and shakes out the orange shock blanket and roughly drapes it over Lestrade. "I suppose that anyone seeing John and myself having sex would be sent into shock," he sniffs. "We are _that_ good, after all."

Lestrade and John exchange looks, then laugh and laugh and laugh.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Life and Times [PODCAST] by teacup_of_doom for rusting_roses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099898) by [teacup_of_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacup_of_doom/pseuds/teacup_of_doom)




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